Idle Hands
by IDOL HANDS
Summary: Why not put ‘em to good use if you aren’t doing anything better with them anyway and earn those “just desserts”, hmm..? The Devil’s playground. CHAN, Dark!Wonka, n/c


He pulled away, sternly, "No, Mr

**Title:** Idle Hands

**By:** IDOL HANDS

**Rating:** R

**Beta:** thx to stminority for _awesome_ work!

**Disclaimer:** Characters and copyright belong to Roald Dahl & Tim Burton. I am in debt to they, not vice versa.

**Warnings:** chan/shota, dark!Wonka, sexual relations, n/c

**Summary:** Why not put 'em to good use if you aren't doing anything better with them anyway and earn those "just desserts", hmm..? The Devil's playground.

He pulled away. "Mr. Wonka, I won't do that."

With a final, "No."

How the man did tire of that word, his expression indicated.

"Why not?"

"Because it's wrong."

Also not a favorite phrase unless he was _getting away_ with something under the category, that was. Nonchalantly, with a sway of an elegantly concealed hand, "Sez who?" he asked.

"The law."

A guilty, annoyed, eyebrow raised at that. "…How do you know?"

"They told us at school." Back turned away, both sitting upon the bed.

"Pfft! School is a place where they teach you to be stupid." The man lurches over hunched shoulders, the breathing of his chest pressed from behind, voice sugarcoated, but filled with wonton. "C'mon, Just once."

He looks the man in the eye and is given a wink like it's cute, a joke, no big deal. Not the first shocking request that had ever been made, but it was the first of this nature.

Should he run? But to where? One would only get lost inside the maze. If he held his ground like last time…maybe that would bring the candymaker to his senses, sort of like before and…everything could go back to normal…he could forget this happened.

Nerves crinkling the edges of his young voice as he said, "No. And if you ever ask me again, my family and I will leave."

There is a pause, but the larger figure does not move away. Weakness. Fear. The boy has been told they have a scent, but only animals can smell such things. Still, he hears the deep inhaling of air and knows, despite his attempted courage, the sensations wracking every fiber of his being. Warmth of breath at the back of his neck caresses like steam rising off boiling tubs of molten chocolate.

The man's voice is different when he speaks again.

"Oh really? You think so?"

"Yes."

"But they're not going to be able to do that if something _awful_ happens before they can."

Eyes go wide, shimmer and gleam. Heart beats like a rabbit. On reflex, for he would otherwise have thought it unbearable in this moment, he looks up at the person he thought had goodness in him, thought of as friend. Skin so smooth, features so even, appearance immaculate, only something in the gaze reveals any ugliness -- an imbalance within.

"You-you wouldn't do that."

A tone deeper than before responds, "You have no idea what I would or wouldn't do. What I've…already done."

He leans even closer and whispers straight into the child's ear, smugly, self-satisfied, "But wasn't it you who was so insistent to bring them along? See, I may make compromises here or there." An annoyed glance across the Bucket's dim, impoverished living area is given. "However, mark my words _little boy_…"

Gloved fingers grip Charlie's branch of a wrist. His hair pushed into and nuzzled, a bridge of nose and muscle of jaw felt distinctly through. It seemed there was a veil over everything – one the innocent reviled, while the guilty employed.

"I always get…" A bare, small hand is removed from the safety of his own lap and placed back toward the danger of the man's. The child doesn't resist. "Exactly..."

Bare skin is licked like iced cream; an ear lobe is sucked, in between words. "…What I want."

The boy has closed his eyes, committing himself to the deed. Uncertain. For better or for worse, Charlie always did his best at any task put forward. Disturbingly, the once charming giggle vibrates loudly within the shallow orifice of his eardrum. Voice quirky again, although the ending punctuation suggests anything but nice.

"Tell ya wut though. I'll agree to half the bargain. From now on…I won't _ask_."

And then he bit him.

Sharply, with those pure white teeth, just under the collar of his faded shirt collar.

No one knew the difference between right and wrong better than the youngest Bucket. On the other hand, he also knew well the definition of sacrifice and there wasn't anything he wouldn't do for the sake of his family. A second hand was pulled over and required at this point. It was obvious he was getting worked up, the boy's fingers getting as slick as the throat and jaw line being lavished with the strong, experienced tongue of an expert taste-tester. Brief, halting instructions were issued along with praise.

The other velveteen arm had wrapped around the child's emaciated waist, drawing him parallel by his side again. "Trust me, it's all for the sake of making you a better chocolatier…_mmn_…of teaching you…_huugh_…to completely understand…_uuggh_…pleasure."

He might have screamed at the final reaction but found his mouth filled with the aforementioned taste-testing device; contradicting sensations of stubble and face powder, musk and perfume, sweet and sour, satisfaction and guilt of a job well done that shouldn't have been. The body had been inexplicably hard and soft at the same time too.

The candy flavored lips were pealed off, "See…I told ya, like milkin' the cows. I knew you'd be a natural after your keen interest in them. Mn, wait until I show ya how those whips work!"

Mr. Wonka wiggled his eyebrows and appeared quite relaxed, a contented sigh.

The boy's figure stayed ossified in shock as he was examined.

"Go clean yerself."

It sounded like an order. Confused. Clean what? Right. His hands. They felt like someone else's now, connected to his body but not really there. Without a word, he slowly rose up and went to the kitchen sink. Hot water. Soap.

"And instances like this are why…" chirped the man from the background, inventor extraordinaire surfacing past predator, "I created and dedicated a room to Emergency Pants."

Assumedly he was changing them, pulling some miraculous devices from one of the countless coat pockets, like the hidden parts of his persona. But Charlie couldn't turn around; he was too fixated on the task – washing, washing, washing. What could he do? Kill him? Firstly that was wrong and secondly…he couldn't. Why did some part of him still see a magician, a person he once admired? He was just…stuck, in a sticky, horrible lie. Knowing that a piece of him would always want to believe. Was this how illusions and empires were built? Mad men created?

Every other child had paid for an error in its nature. Perhaps to daydream, to be so wishful and blind, was also a crime where some penalty had to be paid – a way to highlight the difference between those seductive fantasies versus their more _distasteful_ reality. Desire: sin and punishment.

Squeaks of rusty springs being bounced upon made his whole body jump. Willy had tossed the old slacks into the fireplace, was clothed and seated again. With the previous playful, but naughty tone of earlier he stated, "Ya know, your grandparents old bed has potential. And I have so much more to teach you. Too bad they'll be home again soon. But tomorrow is another day!"

Charlie came to stand in front of him, arms slack at his sides. Such a defeated posture on such a frail being was impossible to resist, wrists were grabbed once again to control the figure as a puppet, placing the child upon his knee.

"Really though, you feel honored. I don't normally touch anyone, let alone let them touch me. But you're special. You get…" He finished in a whisper of playful tone, "_the big prize_."

He swore he could feel the sensations all over again. It made him shiver and whimper. And in his own home too! Tainted. Unclean. Charlie felt that he could never bear to touch his wonderful family again with the tainted body parts. How…how could he face his family again, knowing what he'd done? How could he cover the wrong?

"May I have gloves?"

The man looked caught off guard.

"Like you."

The request impressed then.

He chuckled, holding the boy's currently bare ones within his own. "Ya know, the great thing about wearin' gloves is that your hands never get dirty!"

What Mr. Wonka said was true, but as time went by, as not long thereafter, he lay in that same bed, held tightly underneath a man whose wardrobe, as it turned out, contained far more garments made of latex than gloves. The boy stared at his own covered hands and felt his fingers -- warm, tight and pulsing inside, so similar to the incessant desirous objects between their legs, trapped in their own fleshy casing, inserted with equal exertion into the form-fitted fashion accessory. Remnants of creams, sauces and oils coated his gasping, struggling body, but not there.

He repeated the notion, _your hands never get dirty_, and had a following thought.

They also never really get clean.

**Author's Notes****: A few more concepts that wanted to shake free from my imagination. I promise I'll be nicer soon. Maybe. We'll see -- eye of the beholder and all that. **

**Concepts of not being able to wash one's spirit clean are attributed to Shakespeare, prime examples being found in a favorite play of mine, ****Macbeth****. Which I learned in school, where I **_**observed**_** much stupidity but unlike Willy's opinion, do not feel it taught me to be so. "Emergency Pants" though, are a real room inside the factory...for whatever "real" means. **

**NOTE****: I'm looking for betas who excel in English grammar and do not mind this sort of tone in writing. Let me know if you're interested.**


End file.
